The sun was sinking below the horizon, casting a deep orange glow over the village. Smoke from cooking fires curled upward, and the cicadas' song mingled with the distant murmur of the river. In their small home at the edge of the village, Malai and Dara sat in uneasy silence. Neither had spoken for hours, too weighed down by the uncertainty of Niramol's fate.
Malai sat cross-legged on the bamboo floor, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. Her usually calm, steady demeanor had crumbled, her eyes red and puffy from hours of crying. Across from her, Dara was curled into herself, clutching the edge of a woven mat, her wide, frightened eyes fixed on the door.
The house felt empty without Niramol, as though the very walls had lost their strength.
"She's strong," Malai murmured, as if to reassure herself. "She'll find a way to survive." Dara didn't reply, biting her lip as her fingers fidgeted with a loose thread on her skirt.
Suddenly, there was the faint sound of footsteps outside—slow, deliberate. Malai's head snapped up, her heart racing as she turned toward the door. Dara stood abruptly, clutching her mother's arm.
The door creaked open.
There stood Niramol, soaked from head to toe, her broad frame illuminated by the last light of the setting sun. Her dark hair was plastered to her face, and in her hands, she carried the golden urn and chest that shimmered faintly in the twilight.
For a moment, no one moved.
"Nira?" Malai whispered, her voice trembling as though she didn't trust her own eyes. "I'm home," Niramol said softly, her voice steady but thick with exhaustion.
Malai was the first to rush forward, throwing her arms around her daughter with a sob. "You're alive," she cried, her grip fierce and unrelenting. "I thought I'd lost you." Dara followed, crashing into them with an embrace of her own, tears streaming down her face. "You came back," she said, her voice breaking. "You really came back."
For a moment, Niramol stood stiffly, the weight of the urn and chest pressing into her hands. She felt her legs give out as she dropped to her knees, placing the items gently on the floor and wrapped her arms around her family, holding them tightly. "I told you I'd be all right," she said quietly, though her voice faltered slightly.
They stayed like that for a long moment before Malai finally pulled back, cupping Niramol's face in her hands. "How?" she asked, her eyes wide with disbelief. "What happened? The goddess—she… spared you?"
Dara looked up at Niramol, her tear-streaked face filled with equal parts relief and curiosity. "What does she look like? Is she as cruel as the stories say? Did she… hurt you?" Niramol hesitated, glancing at the urn and chest at her feet. "No," she said finally. "She didn't hurt me. She wasn't cruel at all."
Malai and Dara stared at her, stunned.
"What do you mean?" Malai asked, her voice incredulous. "The stories—"
"The stories are wrong," Niramol interrupted, her tone firm. She sank back on her heels, her hands resting on her thighs as she met their eyes. "They said she was a monster, that she devoured the sacrifices. But that's not true. She's…" She paused, searching for the right words. "She's kind. And she's beautiful. Like nothing I've ever seen before."
Dara's brow furrowed. "Beautiful? But… they said she's a fish monster, with scales and sharp teeth—"
"She's not," Niramol said, shaking her head. Her voice softened as she continued, her gaze distant. "She has skin like moonlight and hair like flowing water. Her eyes… they're deep, like the river itself. She's powerful, but she's not a monster."
Malai and Dara exchanged uncertain glances, their expressions a mix of wonder and disbelief. Malai's voice was quiet when she spoke. "If she's so kind, why does she demand sacrifices? Why do the stories say she punishes those who displease her?"
Niramol sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. "That's what I want to know," she said. "She told me she never wanted the sacrifices, that the villagers made her into something she isn't. They're afraid of her, so they send people to her, thinking it will protect them. But she doesn't want their fear. She wants something else—something they don't understand." Dara frowned, her fingers twisting in her lap. "If she doesn't want sacrifices, why didn't she tell them? Why let them keep doing it?"
"She tried," Niramol said. "She told me they wouldn't listen. They saw her as a monster and decided that's what she must be." Malai shook her head slowly, disbelief etched into her features. "That doesn't make sense. Why would the village lie about her? Why would they spread stories that aren't true?"
"I don't know," Niramol admitted. She paused, her jaw tightening. "But I'm going to find out."
Both Malai and Dara stared at her, startled. "What do you mean?" Dara asked.
"I'm going back to her," Niramol said firmly. "I need to know more—about her, about why the village has lied about her for so long. There's more to this than we've been told, and I can't just leave it alone." Malai grabbed her hand, her expression stricken. "Nira, no," she said. "You've already been through so much. What if she doesn't let you come back a second time? What if the villagers—"
"She gave me her blessing," Niramol said, cutting her off gently. She touched the immortal flower tucked behind her ear, its petals glowing faintly in the dim light. "She told me to return to the village and tell them the truth. But I can't stop there. If I don't understand her fully, how can I convince them?"
Dara's eyes brimmed with tears again. "But what about us?" she whispered. "What if you don't come back this time?"
Niramol reached out, cupping Dara's cheek with one hand and Malai's with the other. "I will come back," she said, her voice steady. "I promise. But this is something I have to do. For the village, for her… for all of us."
Malai's grip on her hand tightened, but she didn't argue further. She saw the resolve in her daughter's eyes, the quiet determination that had always defined her. With a heavy sigh, she nodded. "Be careful," she said softly, her voice trembling.
"I will," Niramol promised.
The three of them sat together in silence, the weight of Niramol's words settling over them like the night. The cicadas sang on, their song a distant reminder that life, for now, continued.
—❀—
The next morning, the village square was alive with murmurs as Niramol approached. The morning sun cast long shadows from the temple and banyan tree, dappling the ground with golden light. Villagers gathered in small groups, their conversations low but intense. The news of Niramol's return had spread quickly, and with it, a thousand questions. Why had she come back? Had the goddess truly spared her? What did it mean for the village's future?
"The goddess saved me," Niramol said, her voice steady despite the quaver beneath it. "She said she would not accept me as a sacrifice. She has sent gifts to my mother and me. And she left a message: if you send another woman to her, she will destroy this village. Only the women and children will remain."
The villagers were stunned into silence. At the center of it all stood Khun Pramun, flanked by the elders. "What did she look like?" he asked, suspiciously.
Niramol's gaze turned distant, as if recalling a dream. "She was beautiful," she whispered. "Her hair was black like the river at night, and her skin glowed like the moon. Her voice…it was like the sound of the waterfall, powerful but soft. She said she would protect me…and my mother and sister."
The villagers whispered amongst themselves, their fear of the goddess now laced with confusion. Why had she spared Niramol? What did it mean that her wrath could be so selective? For the first time in generations, the villagers realized they might not fully understand the will of Jao Mae Phrai Nam.
Pramun's arms were crossed over his chest, his face grave as he addressed the growing crowd.
"That may be true but the goddess's demands have not changed," he said firmly, his deep voice carrying over the whispers. "If we fail to offer her what she is owed, we risk everything—the river, the fields, our homes. We cannot let one story sow doubt among us."
Niramol's jaw tightened. The whispers around her fell silent as she stepped toward Pramun, her broad figure commanding attention. Villagers turned to stare, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and unease.
"Is that what you believe?" Niramol called out, her voice steady and strong. "That she'll punish us if you don't give her another sacrifice?"
Pramun turned sharply, his expression hardening. "Niramol," he said coldly. "Be silent now. You've caused enough confusion already." But Niramol didn't back down. She stepped into the center of the clearing, her dark eyes blazing as she faced the headman and elders. "The goddess doesn't want your sacrifices," she said, her voice clear and unwavering. "She never did. She told me herself."
Gasps rippled through the crowd, and the whispers started up again, louder this time. The elders exchanged uneasy glances, but Pramun raised his hand to silence the crowd.
"And why should we believe you?" he said, his tone dripping with skepticism. "What proof do you have that you even met the goddess? For all we know, you wandered into the jungle and made up some story to save yourself."
Niramol clenched her fists. "I did meet her," she said, her voice rising. "She spared me because she doesn't want our fear. She wants our love and respect. She's been protecting this village for centuries—not because we give her sacrifices, but because she cares for us."
A bitter laugh escaped Pramun's lips. "Protect us?" he said. "Was it her 'protection' that caused the flood twenty years ago? Or the drought before that? Don't try to convince us that she's some benevolent spirit when we've seen her wrath firsthand."
"That wasn't her," Niramol snapped. "That was us—our ignorance, our failure to understand her. She never wanted the lives we gave her. She only accepted them because we were too afraid to listen to her truth."
"Lies," Pramun barked, his voice cutting through the air. He turned to the villagers, gesturing toward Niramol with a dismissive wave. "Do not let her words deceive you. She has no proof of anything—just a wild story and a few pretty words."
Niramol gritted her teeth, the frustration boiling inside her. Then she reached up and touched the flower tucked behind her ear—the immortal bloom the goddess had given her. She pulled it free and held it above her head, its delicate petals glowing faintly in the morning light.
"This," she said, her voice trembling with conviction, "is my proof. The goddess gave it to me. She said it would never wither, never fade. It's a sign of her blessing, her love. Look at it—can you deny what it is?"
The crowd surged forward, craning their necks to see the flower. Gasps of wonder broke out as the villagers took in its unearthly glow, the way its petals shimmered like liquid light.
But Pramun's expression darkened. He strode forward, his voice sharp and commanding. "It's a trick," he said, snatching the flower from Niramol's hand. He held it up for the crowd to see, his fingers tightening around the delicate stem. "A parlor trick to fool you all. Nothing more than a clever lie."
"It's not a lie!" Niramol shouted, stepping forward, her fists clenched. "You can't deny what you see. You're just too afraid to admit that you're wrong."
Pramun's eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped to a dangerous low. "Enough," he said. "You've done nothing but sow doubt and confusion since you returned. This village has survived because of the sacrifices. That is the truth. And if you stand in the way of what must be done, you will put us all in danger."
Niramol glared at him, her chest heaving with anger. She turned to the crowd, her voice rising again. "Don't listen to him," she said. "He's clinging to a story that isn't true. The goddess doesn't want another sacrifice. She doesn't want any sacrifices. If we honor her with our love and gratitude, she'll bless us more than we've ever known. I've seen her—I've spoken to her. You have to believe me!"
The villagers murmured amongst themselves, their faces a mix of awe and uncertainty. But Pramun quickly stepped in, his voice booming.
"Do you hear her?" he said, pointing at Niramol. "She speaks of love and gratitude, but where is her proof? Where is the goddess herself? If she is so kind, so merciful, why does she not come to us and tell us this herself?"
Niramol's hands tightened into fists, her jaw clenched. "Because we don't deserve her," she said. "Not yet. We've lied about her for too long, turned her into something she isn't. But I'm going to change that."
She swiped the flower from the older man's hand and turned on her heel, striding away from the square, steps heavy with purpose.
"Where are you going?" Pramun called after her, his tone mocking.
Niramol stopped and glanced over her shoulder, her dark eyes blazing. "I'm going to prove you wrong," she said. "I'm going to speak to her again, and I'll bring back the truth. You can try to hold onto your lies, but it won't matter when everyone knows what she really is."
Before Pramun could reply, she stormed off, her heart pounding. Behind her, the murmurs of the villagers grew louder, a cacophony of doubt and curiosity.
Pramun turned back to the crowd, his face stern. "Do not be swayed by her words," he said firmly. "The goddess is what we have believed, and she demands what she has always demanded. We cannot afford to risk her wrath."
But even as he spoke, the villagers' faces were filled with uncertainty. Niramol's words had planted a seed, and no amount of denial could stop it from growing.
—❀—
The waterfall roared with relentless force, its cascade shrouded in mist that swirled like restless spirits. Niramol stood at its edge, her bare feet pressing into the slick, moss-covered stone. The spray chilled her skin, but she didn't flinch. The goddess's flower still glowed faintly behind her ear, a beacon of hope—and proof—that she wasn't imagining what had happened the day before.
Her chest tightened as she stared into the water. She knew the risks, but she also knew what was at stake. The village would not listen unless she gave them more.
She stepped forward, the roar of the water swallowing the hesitant whisper that escaped her lips. "Jao Mae Phrai Nam… I'm coming back."
Without another word, she plunged into the churning pool.
The water was a cold, crushing embrace. Niramol fought against the current, but the force of the waterfall dragged her down, spinning her like a leaf caught in a storm. Her lungs burned as she struggled to hold her breath, but the river was relentless, pulling her deeper and deeper.
Her vision blurred, the world fading into darkness.
Then, through the haze, a pair of glowing eyes appeared.
Niramol gasped as she found herself being pulled upward, warmth radiating through her body as strong arms cradled her against a lithe, graceful form. The darkness faded into the soft, luminous glow of the goddess's lair, and she felt herself laid gently onto the smooth, damp stone of the cavern floor.
The sound of rushing water echoed faintly in the distance as Niramol's chest heaved, her lungs still fighting for air.
"Foolish girl," a familiar voice murmured, low yet filled with concern.
The goddess knelt beside her, her pale hands moving with deliberate care. With a flick of her wrist, a ripple of energy coursed through the air, and Niramol felt a sudden, jarring pressure in her chest. Water spilled from her mouth as she coughed violently, her body convulsing before the pressure eased.
"There," the goddess said softly, brushing the damp hair from Niramol's face. "You should know better than to try to drown yourself in my waters, dear girl."
Niramol blinked up at her, still catching her breath. The sight of the goddess's face, so radiant and serene, calmed her frayed nerves. Her long black hair cascaded like silk, and her dark eyes were filled with a mixture of exasperation and relief.
"I had to," Niramol said hoarsely, her voice raw from coughing.
The goddess sighed, the palm of her hand lingering briefly against the other's cheek before she pulled away and stood. "What is it you seek, Niramol?" she asked. "Why have you come back to see me so soon? I let you leave unharmed. Did your village not believe you?"
Niramol sat up slowly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "They didn't," she admitted. "The headman doesn't believe I met you, and the elders think I'm lying. Even the villagers… they're too afraid to trust me. They need more."
The goddess frowned, her brow furrowing. "More?" she repeated, her tone laced with a quiet sadness. "What more can I give them? I've blessed their crops, their waters, their health. I've asked for nothing in return but respect. Must I show myself to them to prove I mean no harm?"
"Yes," Niramol said quickly, her voice rising with urgency. "If they could see you—if they knew the truth—they'd stop the sacrifices. They'd stop fearing you and start honoring you the way you deserve."
The goddess's eyes softened, but there was a flicker of unease in her expression. She turned away, pacing slowly across the cavern floor, her movements fluid and graceful. "It's not that simple," she said quietly. "You don't understand the weight of their fear. They've built their lives around it, their traditions, their beliefs. To show them my true self would shatter everything they think they know."
"Good," Niramol said firmly, rising to her feet despite her trembling legs. "They need to see the truth. They've lied about you for generations, turned you into a monster because it was easier than trying to understand you. If they see who you really are, they'll have no choice but to change."
The goddess stopped and turned to face her, her dark eyes studying Niramol intently. "You have faith in them," she said softly. "More faith than I do." Niramol stepped closer, her gaze steady. "I have faith in you," she said. "If they see you the way I see you, they'll understand. They'll have to."
The goddess's expression flickered, her lips parting as if to respond, but then she hesitated. Finally, she sighed, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
"You're bold," she said, her tone almost teasing. "And stubborn. I see why the river brought you to me."
"Does that mean you'll do it?" Niramol asked, her voice hopeful.
The goddess shook her head gently. "No," she said. "Not yet. If I appear before them now, it will only cause more chaos. They'll question why I have not revealed myself before, why I've allowed their traditions to continue. It will create more fear, not less."
Niramol frowned, her shoulders slumping. "Then what should we do?"
The goddess stepped closer, her hands clasped in front of her. "We'll investigate," she said. "You and I. We'll learn why these lies about me have persisted for so long. Someone—perhaps many—benefited from turning me into a monster. We need to understand their motives before we act."
Niramol's eyes widened slightly. "You'd do that? Help me uncover the truth?"
The goddess smiled faintly. "It is my truth as well," she said. "And you seem determined enough to follow it, even if it means throwing yourself into the river again."
A small laugh escaped Niramol, despite herself. "I won't need to, now that I know you'll come after me."
The goddess's smile widened, her expression warm. "Come," she said, gesturing toward the center of the cavern. "We'll need to plan our next steps carefully. The truth has been buried for a long time, but it will not stay hidden forever."
As the goddess moved gracefully across the cavern, her silver sabai trailing behind her, Niramol followed. For the first time in days, she felt a glimmer of hope—not just for herself, but for her village, and for the woman she had come to see not as a monster, but as something far more extraordinary.